


and/or

by Siria



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Community: cliche_bingo, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-07-26
Updated: 2009-07-26
Packaged: 2017-10-03 19:15:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siria/pseuds/Siria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When he was Running, adrenaline and necessity had kept Ronon going.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and/or

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to sheafrotherdon for betaing. Written for cliche_bingo for the square 'injury.'

When he was Running, adrenaline and necessity had kept Ronon going. He'd told himself there were limits to his perseverance, made muttered bargains with himself when crossing the pale green salt flats of Jesharl that _I end this tomorrow, or I'll let myself_... That was a sentence he'd never finished, knowing that the day he did so would be the day the Wraith finally caught him, but the sharp-edged fragment of it spurred him on across half-a-hundred worlds. Bear the ache of a sprained ankle, or—grit your teeth against the pain of the gash in your side and hope that the make-shift poultice will be enough to stop infection from setting in, or—heft the pack of stolen grain over your shoulder even though your bruised muscles scream against it, or. He bargained with himself over and over, weighed seven years' grief against what hope his heart could still hold, and if he never quite lost—well, Ronon never quite won, either.

Then there was Atlantis, a children's story made real in salt and glass and wind-whipped water. He didn't have to Run anymore, and for the full first season he spent in the city, that fact alone was enough to make his breath come painfully in his chest every time he thought of it. Day followed day on Atlantis in a way Ronon hadn't known in seven years; he'd found the possibility of a tomorrow when he'd found his team, and such chance-met happiness was worth the measure of trust it asked of him. A bargain with himself became an understanding with others—'and' instead of 'or'; sit in the ruins of your home and dig a bullet from your thigh, feel the pain of it and hope that your team is still coming for you; trust that Teyla's small hands pressed against your abdomen to staunch the blood flow, Rodney's panicked voice in your ear, are talisman enough to cling to while John gets you home safe; limp out of the gym after practise, relishing the feel of bruises that didn't come from malice, the knowledge that you could head from there to the showers to dinner with Jennifer and Teyla and not have to worry about watching your back.

It was the third day of the week, as they counted things on Atlantis. Ronon had a clutch of slowly-fading bruises banding his belly, a black eye and a row of stitches on his right forearm, thread as neat and regular as Jennifer's handiwork could make it, signalling that Ronon would soon pass John in the scar collection stakes once more. None of them were very serious injuries, and the fact that he'd gained them on New Athos, having been foolish enough to try to herd a flock of enraged _kseetha_ birds by himself, rather than earning them in a fight with the Wraith, meant that he'd only had to spend a single night in the infirmary and had to endure only a single, telling eye-roll from Teyla. He'd been dismissed back to his quarters the next evening with a bottle of painkillers dispensed by Marie, and a stern lecture about how she'd _know_ if he didn't take them this time that sent him shuffling out the door, sheepish.

That was another thing to relearn—what it felt like to have someone fuss over your well-being, to care if you recovered or not—and Ronon let himself smile and mumble thanks at the people he passed in the corridors who wished him better soon. He took the transporter down from the medical floor, rather than his usual stairs, and didn't let himself feel guilty for it; he didn't have to be always in training now, and there could be a space for kindness.

There could be a space for this, too: he let himself into their quarters, glad of their dim cool, and paused only to kick off his unlaced boots and toe out of his socks before easing himself down onto the bed and under the covers next to Jennifer. "Hi," he said, pressing a kiss to her temple as their bodies settled down next to one another in a careful modification of their usual sleeping arrangements—Jennifer on his left instead of his right, her hand on his chest instead of flung over his belly, the fingers of his good hand resting lightly on the nape of her neck, underneath the tumble of her hair.

"'lo," she mumbled, barely awake but smiling against his shoulder. "Lil' nap."

"Okay," Ronon said, and let his eyes drift closed while Jennifer pulled the covers up to their chins.

"You feelin' any better?" she asked him, voice thick with sleep and something more than affection. The tips of her fingers traced lazy, soothing patterns into the skin over his heart, sketched out the equation of the mysterious alchemy that was him and her.

"Mmhmm. No pain."

"Liar," she said, though there was no heat behind it. "Marie send y'test results to my email?"

"Yeah. Be waiting for you when we wake up."

"Okay." Jennifer nestled closer to his side, and each inhale of hers matched an exhale of his own. "Sleep. And no more _kseetha_ birds, or next time y'can pick feathers out of y'own damn hair."

As a threat, it might have been more successful if she hadn't yawned as she'd uttered it, and if her toes hadn't been curling in a syncopated, contented rhythm against Ronon's calves; it would definitely have been more successful if Ronon hadn't understood what she'd really meant, if he didn't understand what that complicated mixture of affection and worry and love and belonging could do to your heart. He smiled and let himself relax in her arms and slept, because this was his 'and' instead of an 'or', an understanding offered him that gave him time to rest.


End file.
